


Sangria

by ospreyx



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol, Collars, F/M, Infidelity, Light Dom/sub, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29289135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: James and Willow have an arrangement.
Relationships: James Ironwood/Willow Schnee
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Sangria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elzierav](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/gifts).



> a gift for elz, because i love you and because you shamelessly enabled me ♡
> 
> idk when this takes place in canon. we'll just say it's _sometime_ before v5.

James and Willow have an arrangement.

The dinner party is needlessly grandiose, but it has always been that way. It's for appearances more than anything. Nameless faces and careless whispers, all about money and shares and deals, none about anything worth her time. A glass is in her hand, wine like a blood red sunset half-full and seething, swaying in lazy circles until she gets what she wants.

She would say that James appears suddenly, but that would be a lie. There is no secret to why he disappears from the crowd, one gloved finger tugging at his collar just enough to help but never enough to reveal the sliver of cool gray beneath. James appears at her side like how the sun first appears over the horizon, something fleeting, something inevitable.

It started a long time ago, but at this point, Willow doesn’t think that either of them would be able to pinpoint exactly what started it. It started with her unable to think, and him thinking too much; her pouring wine, him accepting it; her left alone to her own devices, and him very willingly offering himself as one of them.

They have an arrangement, and it goes something like this.

They are somewhere dark upstairs, somewhere quiet, uncaring to the dull murmur of the guests down below. Starlight bleeds in through the ornate window, its gleam bright and opalescent against the stretch of metal right below her. The linens against her knees are soft, white, soon to be ruined, soon to be drenched red like the label on the bottle nearby.

Long ago, she might have cared about the evidence left behind, about the sheets that their servants would have to dispose of later. She might have cared about her husband just downstairs, but it has been years of laying this not-secret out bare for anyone to find if they wanted to, and not once has he said a word. Maybe he turns a blind eye to it. Maybe he just hasn’t noticed.

Either way, this is an arrangement that neither of them have to worry about, and Willow can’t say she’s all that upset about it.

James always holds out for a surprisingly long time, but even he has his limits. To anyone else, he is infallible, the weight of the kingdom kept steady on his shoulders for as long as he is in the public eye. But this is nowhere near the public, and his only audience is Willow and the shattered moon, and for once, he may let go.

Here, James is not the General, the Headmaster, the spotlight of every smear campaign there is. Here, he is human, and he is _needy_ , and at a particularly harsh snap of her hips against his ass, he lets out a broken sound.

Willow has always liked fucking him like this - his back pressed hard against her chest, half flesh and half metal that shudder equally against her. She occasionally tugs on the silver chain that he has attached to a leather collar to keep his head up, to keep him from hiding, to keep his voice as loud as she wants it to be. It's not like anyone will hear them. It's not like any lingering maids would dare breathe a word, either, if either of them even cared about that anymore.

She presses her lips just under his jaw, half against flesh and the other against the leather. While she’s never cared for collars, she’s always cared for the bruises they’d leave when she got particularly rough. It’s possessive, but not because she wants to cage him; it’s more about the lack of power, because here, he is not a title or a figurehead. Here, he is the center of attention, but not for politics, not for strength.

For now, James is Willow's to toy with, and that will ring true as long as the collar stays.

His hands are white-knuckled in the sheets, no doubt aching to reach down between his thighs, but he has always been good about keeping his hands where she tells him to. There’s a desperate tension in him like he’s on the verge of snapping, a burst of sparks beneath his skin waiting to ignite, and oh, they can’t have that. Can’t have him falling, can’t have him breaking. 

She presses in deep and stills, pulls back to watch the way he grinds back against her. The room rocks just so when she does, the mattress momentarily uneven like languid ocean water beneath them, but she’s used to that by now. She’s used to a lot of things, used to frayed clarity and the slight tremor in her hands as he holds James' hips to keep from swaying, but this is the one thing she will never quite tire of. 

James is always lovely like this, searching for something he can’t name, wordlessly begging for something he can’t reach. Willow would allow him to beg, but she’s weak for a powerful man begging pretty on her strap. She’d give him the shattered moon in a locket if that’s what he wanted, if that’s what he begged and pleaded and sobbed for. 

But that is not what he’d ask for, and she doesn’t want this to be over just yet. 

Willow reaches out to smooth one hand between his shoulder blades, running her fingertips down the delectable curve of his spine. He melts the same way glass does under her touch; his back arcs further, his thighs spread themselves wider, forehead presses hard against the sheets between his elbows. James is still grinding on her cock when she leans over to reach for the bottle of wine left discarded nearby. She jerks the leash, a reminder more than a warning, and reluctantly, he stills.

Out of all the things they do, this might be her favorite part of their nights together. Bringing him to that edge, leaving him wanting, quaking, watching the way he shudders as she finally pours the wine.

It is like taking a sacrament, wrought from a blade that draws pleasure rather than blood. Rivulets of wine run down the scarred divide between flesh and metal, purposefully placed because she knows that’s what he likes. Knows that the skin there is sensitive, knows without looking that he’s twitching around the cock buried deep inside him. 

The wet glisten of wine against skin and metal is bright, almost crystalline in the moonlight. He is drawn wire-tight, not at the edge but perilously close to it, almost too vulnerable for her to touch. But that’s the point of these nights, the bending, the breaking. The whole point is to watch him unfurl like the petals of a rose, to watch him jerk and hiss at the pass of her tongue over his skin.

It tastes like metal, like salt, like flowers. It tastes tart like the wine, sweet like the noise he makes the lower she goes. It tastes like power, in a way, raw and heady and somehow more intoxicating than the wine. It tastes like the power Willow has when she reaches for the leash again and yanks him back upright with her. Red trails low over his waist, his hips, his thighs, and she would catch the rest with her tongue if James wasn’t already so desperate, so needy. 

She is, as well, with a distant pulse between her thighs that pools higher with time. She pulls out slowly, watching the way his hole catches against the head before she snaps back into him. It is mesmerizing, seeing the way his thighs begin to quake anew, the way he pushes back and takes what is given with naught more than a breathy groan.

James can come from this alone, but that’s not exactly what Willow wants.

She reaches out, but not for the cock that drips precome between his thighs. Once again, her fingertips press against his spine, but now, it’s with purpose. Now, it’s deliberate, down against the melded divide between flesh and metal and back again, and already, he’s shaking. Already, he’s so close to coming undone.

“Beg,” Willow says - doesn’t slur, but comes close to it. She presses down against his back again, fucking him ragged, digging her nails in just to feel the way James _writhes._ “Tell me what you need, _General._ ”

The wounded noise he makes simmers in her blood like a drug, pools between her thighs like ice left to melt. “Please,” James gasps out like the spark that ignites the gunpowder, the flame that starts the wildfire, “please, I - I need it, need - need to come, need you to -”

Willow’s other hand wraps around his cock, and he cuts off with a strained, ragged groan, trailing off into what might be a whine. She pumps him in time with her thrusts, drags her fingers down either side of his spine - he strains, meets her each time, sobs out once - and soon, he’s trembling, panting, taking what is given, taking until he can’t anymore.

Somehow, James still keeps himself upright, collapsing only one she finally pulls out of him. Idly, she presses two fingers against his slicked hole, circles just so, more out of fascination of her handiwork than it is out of the need to tease him. Weakly, he presses back against her fingers, but she knows he isn’t going to be ready for another round anytime soon.

There isn’t much more time for another round, either.

She tugs on the leash once. “Turn over,” she tells him, not a command but also not a request that may be denied, and after a dazed pause, he does as he is told.

Buckles come undone and straps are released with a faint whisper against her skin, and once the harness is discarded, she climbs onto him. Swings one leg over, almost falls as she does, but she manages to keep herself steady on the headboard. She brings the glistening lips of her cunt just over his mouth, and at his sides, his hands waver, waiting for the permission, the allowance.

That alone is strikingly heady. Willow reaches down to tug at his hair as she purrs, “You can touch.”

In an instant, his hands are on her. Fingers dig into her thighs, some flesh and others metal, the touch searing on one side and frigid on the other. Already, his tongue is on her, hot and slick up against the length of her cunt before his lips wrap around her clit. James always been lethally good at this, never one to tease, always one to cut right to the feeling in just the way she likes.

He lets Willow fuck his face - not that he has the choice, but he flattens his tongue, presses up against each languid rock of her hips, rumbles out a soft moan when she tugs at his hair. Pleasure laps in waves up her spine, not sparking like a fire but clashing like the oceanside. There’s a rush beneath her skin, electricity in her veins, an ache that pulses deep like the hammer of blood in her jugular before she’s falling, falling. 

Her jaw falls open, breaths come out in trembling pants, wounded noises of her own that she can’t hold back. Vision whites, and she is nothing but a tidal wave, nothing but the waters beneath a vicious thunderstorm, the tongue lapping against her cunt and lips on her clit the only focal point she has. 

Willow’s quaking when she pulls away, pausing only to admire the slick mess on James’ lips, chin, jaw. His hands slide away from her thighs, the ache in them a prelude to the bruises that will no doubt linger for the night. She isn’t worried about that, either.

Inevitably, the collar comes off, and the night ends with it. Willow has half the mind to help clean him off, fumbles with the buttons of his overcoat before he huffs out a laugh and takes over, but that is the extent of it. The collar and chain linger on the dresser, placed neatly next to the glass she pours herself. There are sheets to be changed and a bath to be run, but for now, she marvels in the afterglow.

Soon, James is gone, but he lingers at the door just long enough to awkwardly utter out, “Thank you.”

That’s one thing he never really shakes off no matter how long this goes on for. Willow would laugh if she wasn’t too busy downing another glass of wine.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


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